Picking Up The Pieces
by love and music are forever
Summary: Wilson falls ill with a rare disease that no one can seem to identify It's up to House to figure it out. But all Wilson wants is for House to be there for him, when he's been there for House so many times. Now a completed!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_Wilson_

_I'm always the one to pick up the pieces. Always the one with the level-head. Always the one to think things through. The one to watch his ass. The one to help him out. The one to watch out for him. I'm always there for him...every time...every single damn time...it's me. _

_I'm always the one to pick up the pieces. I was the one to show up at his apartment at one in the morning when he got drunk over Stacy. I sat through the angry screams and the uncontrolled tears. And I spoke softly when he yelled and comforted him when he cried. I was there the next morning when the ache of his heart combined with the pain of his hangover as well as the damage to his leg caused him to overdose on Vicodin. (I was there every time he did that)_

_I'm always the one to pick up the pieces. I was the only one to stand up for him against Vogluer. I was going to loose everything for him...for our "screwed up friendship". This friendship where he can't give an inch so I give a mile. Where he leaves things in pieces and I come in to clean them up. And I'm the only one that really knows him. The only one that sees across the distance he places between himself and everyone else. I'm the only one who can get through to him...and sometimes, he doesn't even listen to me. He's too wrapped up in his pain to give a damn about anyone else, even about me. Even though I'm the one that's always picking up the pieces. _

_But I can't pick up his pieces when I can't pick up my own. Just for once...I needed him...needed him to be the one to pick up the pieces. _

_But he can't do that…_

"House?"

"I'm sorry, the doctor is not in." Gregory House replied leaning off his couch to nudge the blinds closed with the tip of his cane.

"House!" Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, Cuddy's face took on the look that she always wore when House was uncooperative...which was nearly all the time. Even through the glass, front wall of his office he could hear the stiletto on her high-heeled shoe clicking as she taped her foot impatiently on the tile.

House responded by reaching over and turning up his stereo, which was currently playing "Baba O'Riley" by The WHO.

_I get back to my living…_

"House, you haven't taken a case in two weeks. Cameron is doing YOUR clinic duty."

_I don't need to fight…_

"Chase and Forman are playing…."

He shoved the volume dial up to max so that Cuddy's voice was drown out entirely.

_To prove I'm right…_

She must have realized his intentions this because she yelled even louder, but couldn't manage to scream over the pulse of the piano and clash of drums.

_I don't need to be forgiven…_

Yelling, perhaps, wasn't the best word, she was actually screeching. It was a harsh, piercing note that cut through House's ears like a white-hot bolt of pain…but House was used to dealing with pain. Pulling the pill-bottle out of his pocket he dry-swallowed a Vicodin.

"HOUSE!" Cuddy's voice managed to cut in during one of the lulls of the music.

Greg rolled over on the couch and pushed the blinds open. He began the painstaking process of rising to his feet. His leg was always stiff after he first stood up, so his limp was more pronounced. If Cuddy hadn't already known this she would have thought that House was purposely exaggerating it in order to curb her anger by making her feel sympathy for him.

"What?" He mouthed; she couldn't hear him through the door.

His eyes sparkled with that thrill of defiance.

The song seemed to present his exact philosophy: he didn't need to fight to prove that he was right; he was already so assured of it. And as for forgiveness…well, House didn't make any mistakes.

"Get down to the clinic and do your hours instead of making Cameron do it. And we have a hospital full of cases, find one and get Foreman and Chase to start working on it instead of throwing balls of paper into trash cans!" While, he couldn't hear her over the music, House could read his boss's lips perfectly well, and even if he hadn't been able to, it was all too clear what she wanted.

_Get up off your ass, Greg. Go deal with the sniffly-nosed kids down in the clinic, Greg. Stop being a bastard and listen to me, Greg. _

Same old story.

"Sorry, can't hear you." He said and closed the blinds again. Lying back down on the couch, he grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his eyes.

Two more songs had played before Cuddy finally left. House turned down the music and listened to the sweet sound of her heels disappearing down the hall…it was far more dulcet than any other melody.

Taking the pillow off his eyes, he leaned forward and massaged his leg. He could feel the cragged surface that was now where his thigh muscle had once been. Even through his thick jeans he could feel every uneven surface, every scar. It was simple repetition that had imprinted them in his mind. The layout of that wound was known so well to him, that he didn't even have to touch it to feel it.

"House?" A very disgruntled looking Cameron was scowling at him through the door between his office and the conference room. "House? The clinic is filled with flu patients, we need help down there."

"Get Forman or the Australian boy." He considered going over and closing those blinds too, but didn't want to go through the trouble of standing up again, maybe Cameron would just go away in a second.

"I just sent them down there, but it won't be enough, clinic is still overflowing." Cameron seemed truly annoyed; House found it very amusing to find a scowl on her lips which were normally turned up in a soft smile or pulled into a straight line in deep thought.

House shakily rose to his feet and leaning heavily on his cane moved over to the door. His crooked stance mirrored the pout of his lips as he glared back at her through the glass.

Some brief battle of wills seemed to occur as their eyes were locked before Cameron finally surrendered, turned and moved out of the conference room. He watched her back until the elevator door closed in front of her auburn hair, white coat, and lipstick lined frown.

_Two down._ He allowed himself a slight smile, maybe he'd get away without ever doing a single bit of work today.

He'd just started to sit back down when he heard the door open behind him. Half-leaned over the couch, he cocked his head, almost dog-like in manor; he couldn't have heard that, the doors were locked. Turning his head slowly, he looked over his left shoulder.

James Wilson, House's best…and only…friend was standing in the doorway dangling a key from his middle finger. "You really shouldn't let me get a hold of your keys when you're drunk."

"You made copies!" House moved to reach for the key, but his leg was still too stiff. Wilson nimbly slipped away and placed the key into his breast pocket. Greg knew that he wouldn't win any wrestling match he attempted to provoke, so he let it go for the moment.

"Your office key, your motorcycle, your apartment…all of them." James replied, sitting down behind House's desk.

"What are friends for if not backstabbing?" Replied House tartly.

"Well, this friend is here to warn you that you better stay hidden in your office. Cuddy is on a rampage, if she finds you..."

"She already did find me, I refused to come out."

"Good God, House! The woman is ready to shoot you!" Wilson leaned forward and pulled a small packet out of his pocket.

"Shame, because I'd love to see her mad. Every inch of that sexy body trembling." He made a cat-like noise in the back of his throat. "She's way too hot to be a hospital administrator; who do you think she slept with to end up here?"

Glaring at Greg, obviously telling him to drop the irreverent topic, Wilson took a lozenge out of the packet..

"Hey! Hey!" House moved as quickly as he could across the room and snatched the packet from Wilson just before he could slip it back into his pocket. "I'm the only one of us who can pop pills here."

Wilson made a grab after House, but the other man quickly spun away, he was agile enough when he wanted to be.

"Throat lozenges? Tsk Tsk Tsk. I would have expected more of you. If you're going to encroach on my territory at least do it with some real drugs." Greg tossed the package over his shoulder.

Wilson had to lean nearly out of the chair to catch it. There was a reason Greg became a doctor instead of a sports-star, even before the accident he'd never been the most coordinated person ever.

"I'm only taking them for pain." James Wilson fought to keep the slightly hostile tone out of his voice.

House flopped (well, as close as he could come to flopping without causing himself injury) down in the chair across from Wilson. "Where as I take mine 'cause they taste like candy." He reached into his pocket and tossed a pill into the air before catching it between his teeth.

"How many of those have you taken in the past hour?"

"How many of those lozenges have you taken in the past hour?"

"Throat lozenges aren't habit forming. And I don't think it's possible to overdose on them."

"Why are you taking them anyway?"

"You're a nosy bastard! And for a doctor, you're not very perceptive. Throat lozenges only treat one condition."

"Another reason I stay away from the clinic, no sick people to catch things like that from." House picked up the over-sized tennis ball and leaned back in the chair, hurling it up at the ceiling, and watching it fall back to his waiting hand.

"Well, you can't stay away too long, Cuddy goes on break soon and ten dollars says she drags you down there." James reached for his wallet.

House snorted. "You'll be paying for my lunch tomorrow."

"I do that most of the time, you just take mine." Wilson waved a ten dollar bill teasingly before sliding it back into his wallet. "But I have a feeling that even you won't be able to stand up to that woman on the warpath." Rising, Wilson said, "Besides, I could always just give her the key to your office." And with that he moved out of the room.

"That's cheating! If you do that the bet's off!" But Wilson had already left.

House leaned back in the chair and hurled the ball towards the ceiling again. He watched it rise and fall.

But he wasn't the only one observing it. Staring back through the partially open blinds, Wilson watched.

The ball itself was like House. A constant cycle, never managing to stay level, sometimes on the way up other times on the way down, and every once in a while hitting a high and a low and when he hit that low there was always a hand to help him back up. Wilson was that hand.

House had been on his way up again for the past few weeks, still addicted to pain and pain medication, still anti-social, still hostile and sarcastic, but better, for House. The ball brushed against the ceiling then began its decent again.

When would House start to fall again?

_And I'll have to be there to help him up. _

Wilson turned away from the window and moved back down the hall. He only had a few minutes left on break, his throat was killing him, maybe he'd head down and grab some coffee…or preferably some tea….and then hide from Cuddy for a while so that he could put off her yelling at him about House before she finally left to go yell at House some more. A dull ache was growing behind his temples and he didn't really feel like being yelled at.

He reached out and pushed a button on the elevator and headed towards the cafeteria.

One floor down, the doors opened and Cuddy stood there glaring menacingly. The look in her eyes would have cut through steel (or her preferable goal, House's flesh). "Where the hell is House!"

Wilson suppressed a groan; the high-pitched note of hysteria in Cuddy's voice had a way of doubling the pain of his headache. "Hiding in his office."

Cuddy pressed her lips together into a thin line and slammed her manicured nail into the door-open button and stormed off the elevator. Every heel click shot through his head.

Yeah, that cup of tea sounded amazing right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: since I forgot it in chapter one I don't own House M.D. or any related character, I do own the first season on DVD though! **

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this fic! Your feedback was wonderful and I'm so glad people are interested in it! So here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it just as much. And PLEASE. if you stop into read this, PLEASE PLEASE review!**

**Thanks, **

**Love and music are forever**

Chapter Two

"You owe me ten dollars." Said Wilson pouncing on House as he walked through the doors into the Clinic.

House grumbled something incoherently, which was probably telling Wilson to go to hell (or something equally as pleasant), as he headed towards exam room three.

In two bouncing run steps Wilson had grabbed his friend's arm and shoved a case file into his hand. "You can't be serious." House looked at the file as if he were holding some very large, disgusting worm, except for the fact that even that wouldn't have disgusted him to this extent. "I've already missed the first five minutes of General Hospital! Robin's going to finally come to terms with her past and forgive her parents in this episode."

Wilson never could understand House's fascination with soap operas. He saw them as cheesy stories with weak plots and actors whose very dialogue made him cringe. House fought with real medical issues nearly every day, Wilson didn't see why he felt the need to involve himself in these cheep copies of people and their problems. Maybe he saw them as an escape, a place where people were shallow, events only masquerading in the poor guise of drama, and heartbreaks were solved in an episode and didn't often remain as haunting specters of former loves looming over their once lovers…as Stacy did House. He'd let her go, told her to go, and yet he still missed her, still wanted her. Another thing Wilson didn't understand about House was shy he kept throwing his heart after a woman who he knew would only break it time and time again.

Grabbing House's hand, he pressed the file into the diagnostician's chest. "You already seem to know what's going to happen. Miss it. We've got half a million patients to see."

"Can't I just hand them all a tissue and two aspirin?"

"No."

"Aye! Look out! Satan in Stilettos!" House said this loudly enough to make sure that Cuddy, who had just walked in, heard it.

"Dr. House, good to see you managed to join us." She brushed past him and picked up a stack of files. "Seeing as you only have one there." She pressed the two dozen files into his hand and quickly swooped away again, grinning at how easily she'd retaliated against him.

House made a rude face at her back and lurched towards exam room three, his gait made even more awkward by the large pile of manila file folders.

"You still owe me ten dollars!" Wilson called after House; he shut the door behind him without ever acknowledging the remark.

He probably shouldn't have shouted, seeing as House hadn't bothered to listen so the only thing accomplished was making his throat hurt even more.

_I am not getting sick. I am _not_ getting sick. The_ thought was almost an order directed at himself.

He swallowed and was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain.

_I am not getting sick. _He continued to assure himself even though the evidence to the contrary was irrefutable.

"What?" Gregory House asked, raising an eyebrow, the woman's statement had taken him slightly aback.

"My son is dying!"

But then again, any invalidated decree of mortality usually had that kind of effect on people.

The woman wailed and motioned to the little boy sitting on the exam table. He was about six-years old with messy brown hair—which had obviously been hastily combed a second earlier. His shirt however, was neatly pressed and House could see the iron-pressed pleats in his pants. It didn't take him more than a second to make a judgment about this woman. And that was before he even looked at her. The woman herself had thin, blonde hair, which had clearly been bleached. Her matching jacket and skirt screamed _PTA board member_. A large, lime green purse was slung over her shoulder. It was probably a Mary Poppin's bag, holding everything that this "super" mommy and her poor little child could possibly need.

"You're son is dying?"

"YES!" She cried exasperatedly.

"Of what?" Sometimes it was better to (and more amusing to) appease lunatics.

"Malaria." She pulled out a zippered appointment book, it was made of the same hideously colored leather as the purse. She had neat precise handwriting, every letter formed exactly identically.

The little boy coughed slightly as House turned away and yanked on a pair of latex gloves.

"He has a fever, a headache, nausea…"

"Excuse me, have you made any trips to the Congo?"

"No…."

"Kenya? Zimbabwe?"

"No…"

"Chad? Nambia?"

"No…"

"Columbia? Venezuela? Brazil? Indonesia?"

"No...we haven't ever left the country." It was probably a good thing that she had cut him off; House was going to go on listing all the countries he could remember. "And Timothy has never left the state." She was obviously confused as to the relevance of his questions.

"Then, your son does not have malaria."

"But he was bitten by an ant on—" She flipped two pages in her date book "—the 3rd, last Wednesday."

"I'm only going to say this once and I'm going to say it very slowly so that you can get it through your incredibly thick head. Ma-lair-ee-ah is transmitted by moe-ski-toes which do _not_ live in N-ee-w Jer-sey during the win-ter. Your son has the flu. Here, I'll write it down and save you the trouble from scribbling it in that damn book of yours. Take him home, buy him a set of play clothes and call him Tim or Timmy instead so that he doesn't have his teeth knocked out before second grade." He scribbled the word _flu_ on a prescription sheet and handed it to the woman.

The woman was too stunned to answer.

And he was gone.

House had a way of always wanting to get in the last word. It was as if he were participating in some sort of verbal duel with everyone he met and had to get in the last jab. And if he didn't, he sulked for hours coming up with hundreds of cutting remarks. Luckily, he nearly always won the verbal bouts.

"Patient One, suffering from over-protective, obsessive-compulsive mother." House threw the folder onto the table. "Okay, I'm done for today. Maybe I'll have time to catch the preview for next week's episode."

"You are not! Back into that room, buddy!" Cuddy advanced upon him, pointing a threatening finger back towards the exam room.

"Patient Two: Gregory House, suffering from insane boss and over-work." He held up the hand that wasn't gripping his cane and moved slowly backwards until he backed into the room. An elderly man was already there waiting for him.

House sighed, another long and pointless examination.

* * *

"Good-bye." Wilson said tearing a prescription sheet off the pad and handing it to his last patient.

He glanced over at the clock; the large, digital numbers read 8:23. He sighed and leaned his back against the wall, he'd been seeing patients for just over four hours now with only had one fifteen minute break. The dull ache in his head had grown steadily over the hours to a sharp pounding with pain so intense it nearly made him nauseous. Maybe he'd have to swipe a Vicodin from House. The wall was cold and felt nice against the back of his aching neck. Wilson found his eyes slowly closing to shut out the bright lights of the exam room. He should fight it, but the icy wall felt so comforting. His consciousness was slipping away.

Within seconds it was gone.

* * *

_Wilson_

"_Every damn night you're over there!" She shouted slamming her arm against the door so it flew shut again. The angle was which that I couldn't force it, she had the advantage of leverage. _

"_Honey…" _

"_Don't honey me, you bastard! Every night you wind up at his house! You don't give a damn about me, but you do what ever he wants. He doesn't give a damn about you, James! Doesn't give a damn! He doesn't give a damn about anybody! He's too busy feeling sorry for himself!"_

"_Julie…"_

"_No! It's started on you too. You don't seem to care about me anymore. I ask you to be home on time just one night, one night because we had to meet my sister for dinner. Just once! And you give me some bullshit story about having to work late. You were there late there because of him! And now, you're going over there again!"_

"_Julie, you don't understand what he went through. He doesn't have anybody else. He's alone."_

"_I'm alone, James! Every fucking night, I'm alone! You're over there at his house, sleeping on his couch…or doing GOD KNOWS WHAT!"_

"_Julie!" I snapped. I never yelled back at Julie, she was the one with the hot temper. It wasn't worth fighting it like this, but sometimes I would just loose it…this was one of those times. "Dammit, Julie! I can't believe you! He's my friend and he needs help! I'm the only one who can help him!"_

"_Why don't you just fucking marry him then!"_

"_You're a bitch, you know that?" I said and throwing all my weight backwards managed to yank the door to our bedroom open. The force threw Julie back onto the floor. I didn't even glance to see if she was alright, instead I stormed out into the hallway._

"_If you leave this house you will not be coming back in! I swear to God!" She yelled from the door frame as I pulled on my coat._

_My hands trembled in anger as I buttoned the top two buttons of my coat. "You say that House doesn't give a damn about people, well you're wrong! He does, every single damn day! You don't, Julie. You're the one who can't love anyone. Can't really care about anyone. Maybe that's why I help him out, is because at lease I can see that my help is appreciated. Where I'm appreciated! You don't give a damn about anyone. Heart-less…."_

"_You bastard!"_

"…_bitch!"_

"_Get out, James! Get out! And don't you dare come back!"_

_I slammed the door behind me, but I could still hear her screaming. "And go tell Gregory House that he's the fucking reason that our fucked up marriage is fucking over!" _

_The outside air was cold biting against my cheeks and I could still here Julie's screams in my ears. "…you bastard…he's the reason…I'm alone…every fucking night…doesn't give a damn…he's the reason…our marriage…over…James…James… James…"

* * *

_

"Wilson? James? James? James!"

Wilson jerked forward at the sound of his name. The spasm nearly made him slam his head back against the wall, but luckily someone's hand was there in there in the way to protect his skull from being cracked open.

"If you're going to try and get out of clinic duty, you might as well go somewhere else to go to sleep." House's voice was strangely soft compared to the memory of his ex-wife's, which was still ringing in his ears. Wilson moaned weakly and stumbled forward as a shuddering couch wracked his body.

"Are you okay?" House asked.

Wilson was slightly confused by the rare gesture of concern. "What am I dying?"

"No, you just look like crap…but you always look like that."

"Thanks for the concern," James snorted, "but next time I'd rather not have you 'boost' my ego."

"Aw…but what are friends for?"

It was times like these when Wilson wished House had a shred of human decency in him…and some pity wouldn't be unwelcome either.

But he could never expect that of House. House wasn't capable of emotion like that. Wilson would always have to watch his own back, because House couldn't do it. No matter what he'd said to Julie, House really couldn't care for people. An empathetic void seemed to have replaced the diagnostician's heart. So Wilson picked up the pieces. He was always there to watch out for House and help him, even though he received no help in return. But it was so hard to do that when he felt like shit. All he wanted right now was a grain of sympathy his normal way of brushing off House's uncompassionate manner (_House will be House_) wasn't working very well right now.

Wilson just wanted to go back to 221 B and fall asleep on House's couch. Even though his divorce had come through he still didn't have an apartment of his own to live in.

"What do you want anyway?" He asked, it came out a little more harshly than he had intended.

"Clinic's closed." Replied the other man and left the room.

Wilson watched his awkward three-legged gait, cane, foot, foot, cane, foot…an so on, falling into a strange rhythm, a beat that was a constant reminder of his handicap.

_But crippling isn't your real handicap, Greg._ Wilson thought. _Your true affliction is your inability to love or care for anyone at all.

* * *

_

**I'll have the next chapter up soon so look for it within the week!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: checks nope, I have not recently won the lottery, so I am not capable of buying the rights to Gregory House, James Wilson, and all related characters….they're still someone else's property…sigh**

**Okay, we get into some serious symptoms in the next chapter, it's been kinda dragging I know. But I really like this chapter, we get inside House's head for awhile and I think that part is wonderfully written….if I do say so myself!**

**Well, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! And if you read this, please please review! I love feedback! **

**Thanks!**

**Love and music are forever**

**P.S. I'd like to hear if everyone likes the segments written from inside the character's heads, so if you could tell me in your review! hint hint Thanks again!

* * *

**

Chapter Three

Gregory House awoke abruptly, not knowing exactly what it was that had roused him from his dreamless sleep. He never woke without reason, so he knew that there must be an abnormality. House hated abnormalities.

Lying in the darkness he tried to think of everything that could have torn him away from sleeping.

The room was silent, he didn't even hear cars on the road outside. The couple upstairs hadn't decided to work out their marital problems by throwing their personal belongings at each other again. All his neighbors seemed to be sleeping peacefully…or if not peacefully at least quietly. He reached over and grabbed his pager. His eyes were thick with sleep so it took him a second to read the neon screen. Nothing. No new pages. His leg wasn't in any more pain than usual. What could it have been?

He considered getting up to go check the apartment, but he didn't want to go through the arduous process of standing.

Scowling, he rubbed the scraggly growth of his beard. 2:04: too early for someone to be calling, unless it was a medical emergency, but then Foreman—who was on duty tonight—would have paged him.

Then, he heard it, a soft rustling as if someone tangled in fabric was thrashing around gently.

He thought for a moment that the couple upstairs were making love—what they normally did when they weren't screaming at each other—but the noise was too quiet and too nearby for that.

Reaching out in the darkness, his fingers curled around the wooden handle of his cane.

Soft mumbling floated down the hall.

It could just be Wilson…but who would he be talking to at this time of the morning?

Greg desperately didn't want to stand. If he did, it would mean long moments of incredible pain that always seemed like it'd be enough to kill him.

Another moan was this time preceded by a soft thud.

Biting his lip, House rolled over so that his legs dangled over the side of the bed. He reached down and pressed his hand over the old wound, as if the pressure would somehow ease the pain.

_The first step is always the worst._

His life was a series of failed firsts. The first time always hurts the most. And it wasn't just the first step out of bed every day. The first time he'd fallen in love, Stacy. She was gone now and all that remained was an empty place in his heart. The first time he'd realized he couldn't climb a flight of stairs. The first time he'd really resigned himself to being crippled for the rest of his life. Failures, heartbreaks and pain. That's what the first time doing anything meant.

But he took the first step anyway. He tried to bear all his weight on his cane, but even that wasn't enough, just the impact of his foot on the floor sent shockwaves of pain up his leg.

Every day he managed to rise was another day where he didn't give into the pain and self-pity. Hundreds of times, people—Wilson among them—accused him of being addicted to his pain. In some way, they were right, pain made him who he was. Gregory House was defined by his pain. But he wasn't addicted to it. The definition of an addiction was the _compulsive physiological and psychological need for something. _House didn't need his pain. He lived with it, he managed it, but he didn't need it. Someday he thought he would give anything just for the pain to go away.

The only reason that he kept striving after firsts that he knew would hurt him was because if he didn't he would become addicted to the pain. It would become the only thing in his world. Wilson would have said that the pain already caused him to shut people out of his life, maybe it did. But if he ever became lost in that pain, he would shut everyone out of his life. He'd shut himself out of life. Gregory House would cease to exist anymore, he'd be creature ruled by pain.

Another step forward and his leg nearly crumpled underneath him.

Maybe sometimes the first step wasn't always the hardest, it was the repetition.

The hardest part of chronic pain was knowing that it would be there, day after day. There was no escaping it. The initial failure sometimes wasn't as bad as the hopelessness that followed. The futileness that filled every day. Knowing that every failure would be repeated a hundred times over.

Another step.

He wanted to collapse backwards onto his bed and give into the pain. _Only for a moment._ He thought._ Let me surrender just for a second._

There was another thud followed by a sharp cry. House had heard too many sounds like that fall from his own lips to not recognize the feeling behind it. That was what drove him on.

He limped out into the other room.

His eyes worked well enough in the dark to see that Wilson no longer occupied the couch and that the coffee table was terribly crooked.

Using his cane, he flicked on the light.

Wilson was lying on the floor tangled in the blanket. His side was lying against the leg of the coffee table; he must have rolled into it while he slept. House couldn't hide the fact that he was annoyed, he'd been forced to get out of bed just because the man that slept on his couch was having a scary dream.

Poor baby.

"Wilson, you're pathetic." House grumbled and reached out his cane to flick the light off again. It was then he saw the thin sheen of sweat that covered the oncologist's pale skin. He was as white as the Clorox-bleached t-shirt he wore, except for a scarlet flush on his cheekbones, that seemed as out of place as a wine stain.

House moved closer and he could now hear the slightly labored sound of his friend's breathing.

"Hey." He said loudly, trying to wake the other man, but Wilson was lost in a fever-dream.

"Wilson?" House had to sit down on the couch in order to lean over and touch his friend's shoulder. (If you've ever tried crouching down without a thigh muscle you learn very quickly that it's simply not possible to do)

"If you really want to sleep on a floor stay in your office tomorrow night." House grumbled, shaking Wilson gently in what seemed like a vain attempt to wake him.

"Wilson?" He pushed the edge of his cane gently into the other man's cheek. If he had done it with his hand instead he might have noticed the Wilson's skin was hot to the touch.

"James? Jimmy?" House moved the cane down and nudged him gently in the side this time.

"What!" Wilson shot up nearly slamming his head against the edge of the coffee table. His voice was hoarse so what was surely meant as a cry of surprise came out as a rough whisper. "Wha—" The word was swallowed by a fit of coughing.

House reached out and ran a hand over Wilson's back while he coughed. His touch was almost soothing. House pulled his hand away suddenly—Wilson wished he hadn't. But the tender nature of the gesture had surprised House. Physical comforting was not something he did…comforting was just not something he did. He hadn't even thought about it though, it had been almost instinctive.

Swallowing hard, Wilson finally managed to stop coughing. He tried to breathe deeply, but it hurt too much. So he tried to take slow, shallow breaths.

Finally, the coughing subsided. "You die in my apartment and I'll take the money from your wallet to pay the undertaker." House replied, back to his normal, impassionate manner.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine." Wilson said, he hadn't even realized that House hadn't asked this question.

"I don't believe that's the response my remark merited…unless of course the words 'die', 'money', 'wallet', and 'undertaker' have somehow taken on the meaning of 'are you alright'?"

Wilson couldn't concentrate on what House was saying. His head was pounding so intensely he thought it was being torn apart from the inside. Everything swam before his eyes as if he had just stepped off a dizzying amusement park ride. His throat ached and his stomach was threatening to revolt against him. And he was so cold. He didn't even realize he was shivering until he felt a blanket draped around his shoulders and two firm hands hold it there in place.

"I deal with sick people all day in the clinic, and then I come home and have to deal with you. Remind me to thank you as soon as you're conscious enough to realize what I'm saying." Greg sighed. "Come on, you should be in a real bed, sleeping on my floor isn't going to make you any better."

House waited for Wilson to protest the awkwardness of them sharing a bed, but he was too weak for that. So, House continued on with his witty remark as if Wilson had made the comment anyway. When House had a clever response he didn't let incorrect timing spoil it. "And don't worry, you sick and sniffling is not a turn-on for me." House never missed a chance to bring sex into it either.

The sniffly, sick oncologist was now functioning well enough to realize that the last remark had been a joke. He allowed the ghost of a smile to flicker onto his face, he hadn't quite registered what was said so he couldn't make an actual remark about it.

"You're going to have to stand by yourself." Said House, waving his cane slightly to show that he wouldn't be of much assistance in this case.

Wilson saw the regretful helplessness in his friend's eyes. In all honesty, he didn't think he had the strength to stand unassisted. Already he felt weakness seeping into his muscles like some sort of toxin, they felt thick and heavy, entirely incapable of movement.

He had to get up though; he couldn't let House feel that useless.

Wilson would have laughed at the irony if the sound had been able to escape his inflamed throat. He was sick and still he was the one protecting House.

He grabbed the coffee table so hard that his knuckles quickly turned white. His jaw clenched and brow furrowed as he tried to pull himself up to his feet. His arm shook violently and his knees quaked so severely it was as if he were suffering from a seizure. He wanted to fall back down and pass out on the floor, but it was the look in Greg's eyes that somehow gave him the will to pull himself to his feet.

The sudden change in altitude made his stomach fight even harder to expel its meager contents. Swaying dangerously on his feet, he had to grab the back of the couch to keep from falling. He squeezed his eyes closed, but somehow even the darkness continued to spin.

He felt an arm wrap around his waist, and a hand guided his arm around a slanted shoulder.

"Come on." Ordered Greg curtly.

Wilson felt too weak to move, but House drew him forward, nearly carrying his weight.

Every step was pure agony for House. His leg could hardly support his own weight on a good day, today was not a good day, and now it was being forced to carry Wilson's weight as well. He tried not to think about the pain, because if he did, it would consume him.

_Selflessness._

The word floated across his mind. It seemed almost foreign and he had to pause for a second to even recall the definition.

Another step another knife was slammed into his leg.

_Selflessness—being motivated by no concern for oneself but rather by the needs of others._

Blood was spilling over his jaw from biting down on his lip so hard.

_Was he really putting Jimmy's pain above his own? Or was he simply repaying a debt that he'd never been able to recompense before. _

He was almost thankful that Wilson was shivering himself so that he wouldn't notice how fiercely House was shaking.

_Step…swallow down the urge to scream…step…

* * *

_

_House_

_Step…swallow down the urge to scream…step…scream in anger…step…scream in pain…frustration…step…loss…just scream…step…_

_Even the five steps across my hospital room were too much. I reached down to massage my aching thigh. My fingers brushed over the surface of my skin as if touching something alien. I still expected to touch a whole leg. My hand was trembling, not from pain, but from the terrible realization. _

_I am a cripple._

_Part of what Gregory House had been was gone. He is forced to redefine himself by his disability and his pain. _

_I am half a man now, some sort of three-legged freak. _

_Who Gregory House had been was dead; a new man had to be born. Born from the pain like some hideous Venus born from the water. _

_Broken…shattered…_

_These were the words that would define my life. _

_I turned and tried to walk the five steps across my room again._

_Step…swallow hard…step…clench jaw…step…bite lip…step…gasp…step…_

_I hadn't known pain like this could exist. What I had taken for granted was now a struggle. _

_Step…_

"_Greg?"_

_The glass door to my room slid open, I was half-way through taking the next step. I tried to turn at the same time, but the moment I did I realized the movement was a mistake. The cane slid on the floor and clattered just out of my reach. _

_I fell. _

_And all I could do was scream. All the screams that I'd been fighting back burst from my lips in an uncontrollable rush. The pain exploded in me like some sort of white light, blinding me._

"_Greg!" Someone was at my side; a hand was on my shoulder. _

_I recognized the voice, it was Wilson._

"_Here, let me help." Wilson was saying._

_Let me help…let me help…let me help…_

_The words seemed to echo. They all treat me like a child, like I am incapable of doing anything for myself…_

_And maybe I am…_

_Would part of the redefinition of Gregory House have to be dependence upon others? _

_NO._

_Wilson's strong arms wrapped around me and started to bring me to my feet, but I shoved him away. "I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!" I screamed. "Just get away from me."_

_But Wilson didn't move._

"_GET AWAY FROM ME!" _

_Wilson slowly moved away, but only two steps. Standing posed, like an over-protective mother._

_I reached out for the cane, but it was just out of my reach._

_Wilson's eyes flashed with pity. _

_I hated that look. _

_I reached further, until my fingers finally brushed over it and I managed to pull it towards me. _

_Trying to stand, I pushed the cane underneath me and in order to use it to lever my weight up off the floor._

_I fell again._

_The pain was more intense this time, I was on the verge of passing out from it. But I wouldn't let myself scream._

_I wouldn't give Wilson the satisfaction of knowing that I couldn't do this alone._

_Again, I tried to stand._

_And again I fell._

_Then, I saw him outlined in my mind. Gregory House—a cripple, a man who constantly receives pity from others, a man who can't even stand up for himself, a man who is weak. That's who Gregory House was._

"_James, I—"_

_A single tear spilled over his cheek, as if he didn't want me to say it. He didn't want me to be defined by this. _

"_I need help." _

_The first time always hurt the worst. I'd never had to say those words before. _

_Another tear splashed to the white tile floor. Wilson knelt down and slowly lifted me to my feet. He helped me over to my bed. _

_Embarrassment colored my cheeks. _

_I looked at Wilson. More tears were spilling down from his eyes. Tears he didn't seem to be ashamed of. _

_But I was ashamed of them. They were tears for me. Tears for what I had become. Tears for my weakness. _

_I never wanted to see those tears again._

_I didn't ever want to be this weak…_

_But I was_

_Step…fight…step…

* * *

_

House wasn't going to be weak this time. He wasn't going to fall again. The tables had been turned and Wilson was the one depending on his strength this time. He wouldn't fail.

There was no selflessness in this act. It was greed, pure and unparalleled. He wanted to prove that he could be just as strong.

House lay Wilson down on the bed and pulled the covers over his form. He turned to leave again.

"Greg?"

Gregory House turned; this time he made sure he had finished his step and that his footing was stable. "Yeah."

"Thank you."

House pivoted all the way around and took the three steps back to the bed. He touched a hand to the side of Wilson's burning cheek.

A tear hit the carpet.

A tear out of pity.

The innocence of Wilson's thanks made House ashamed. He hadn't done that for Wilson. He'd done it for himself.

Gregory House had been redefined as a self-serving man, a man who couldn't care for anyone else. That's what pain had done to him.

Broken…shattered…selfish…

That's who Gregory House was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Everybody lies: even me. I said that I'd have this up by tomorrow at the latest….so much for that. I meant to, but it's the first week back and the teachers are trying to scare us about how bad this year will be so they're giving us tons of homework. Grr! But anyway! Here's the promised chapter! And I won't make any promises about how soon the next update will be, because they'll probably be lies. I'll just have it out as soon as I possibly can!**

**Thank you sooooo sooooo much to everyone who reviews! Please continue to do so! Or start doing so if you haven't! Hee hee. I love you all!**

P.S. The fanfiction website isn't letting me put in their little divider things so I've had to seperate the sections with O's bear with me. Sorry if it's confusing!

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Chapter Four

_Wilson_

_I watched House from that pensive, half-waking state that comes only from a high fever. Every detail of his face shown clearly each time he came into my field of vision, unlike the rest of my world that swam in an opalescent fog. _

_I could never seem to recall exactly when things happened, or how much time had passed between events. Time passed in a fuzzy blur with some minutes stretching on for hours while others had nearly no existence at all. I didn't know if a day had passed, or a week or even if it had only been a few hours since he'd helped me to bed. Perhaps my hazy perception of time was due to the fact that my moments of true consciousness were few and far between. And even then, I couldn't remember whether I was dreaming or waking._

_I remembered hearing House's voice from the other room. I could tell that he was talking to Cuddy by his ton. He always managed to sound hostile and demeaning at the same time when he spoke to her. Things that would have gotten him fired by any other hospital administrator. _

"…_probably the flu…yeah…no…no, I'm going to stay with him…" He tossed the phone back into the cradle and then I heard him add, "And getting out of clinic is just an added bonus."_

_The next thing I remembered was a cool hand being placed against my forehead. "James? Hey. You've got the flu, not African sleeping sickness; you've got no excuse to still be sleeping." _

_The man was never at a loss for a witty remark. _

_He pressed a glass of cool water into my hands and I drained it thirstily. He was talking to me, but I wasn't really listening. _

_I handed him back the glass and immediately fell back into the feverish state that claimed me._

_I wondered if he was worried about me. Surely he must have been. I knew he was in great pain the previous night (or how ever many nights ago it had been) when he helped me to his bed, but he'd still carried me. I'd been so cynical about House; I'd thought that he was capable of only looking out for himself…maybe there was some place in his heart that watched out for me the same way I watched out for him. _

_I lingered on the verge of dreams. _

_Hundreds of thoughts reached out to me, caressing the fringes of my mind. They beckoned me with honey-sweet whispers; calling me to grasp onto the thought. But like young-lovers they weren't content to linger very long after the initial thrill of discovery and quickly flitted away. Leaving me, alone and heartbroken, as I attempted to reach towards another thought._

_The first one to stay with me beyond the primary excitement of its existence was the memory of Julie's words. _

"He's the fucking reason that our fucked up marriage is fucking over!"

_She was right._

_House was the reason I couldn't stay married. Because in some strange, inexplicable way, I was married to House. _

_Not in the shallow, romantic way that most people are married, but on a far more intimate level. _

_I knew every secret that House had; I'd touched every dark place in his soul (even if it forced him to withdraw from me). I'd seen every tear. I knew him better than he knew himself…I knew him better than I knew myself. _

_I knew why he sought solitude. He tried so hard to close himself off from the world so that it couldn't hurt him. I knew why he was so cynical, because without his cynicism he would be forced to occasionally trust someone, and he didn't want to risk that trust being misplaced. He took risks because if he lived his life like he had nothing to live for he could believe it was true._

_Pain was what he feared and hated the most, but it was what controlled his life. Day after day he fought with it. (Some days giving into it). _

_I was the only one who would ever really be able to hurt House, because I was the only one who got to him. The only one who's approval he seemed to need, whose assistance he would accept._

_As long as House was in my life I wouldn't be able to keep any other deep relationship. I was too much a part of him, and he of me, for there to be room in my life for anyone else. _

_House came first, always. _

_House mattered most, always._

_House needed me above all others, always._

_It was unconditional. _

_Our "stupid screwed-up" friendship where we were too wrapped up in each other for anyone else to matter._

_So, I picked up the pieces of my own life because our friendship tore my life apart…but I was incapable of surviving without it._

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

House placed a hand on Wilson's forehead. It had been three days and Wilson's fever had finally broken.

"James?"

Eyelids fluttered open and two brown eyes, unglazed by fever, peered back at him. "Hey," Wilson replied, smiling slightly.

"You're back from the land of the dead at last." Said House, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Wilson wasn't sure if it was for the human contact of if he was simply trying to relieve the constant pain that shot through his leg when he remained standing for too long.

"What day is it?" Wilson asked, as he used his elbows to push himself up to a sitting position.

"Saturday." Greg replied, reaching over to the pitcher of water on the bed table and pouring a glass of water.

"Four days?" His face morphed into a look of utter surprise, as he took the glass of water that he was offered.

"You haven't eaten in three days. If your fever hadn't broken last night I would have brought you to the hospital."

"I wondered why I was starving."

"I'll get you something." House stood up slowly.

"Greg," Wilson reached out and grabbed the other man's wrist. "You're so stubborn. Cuddy would have wanted you to have brought me in days ago…especially if I wasn't eating…why didn't you?"

House didn't answer. He just looked down at Wilson's hand; he seemed to take in every detail. His blue eyes darted around the other man's fingers and the way the encircled his arm. The gaze was gentle; it was almost as if he'd reached out and took the man's hand in his own.

He pulled his arm away and continued to look at the spot on his arm, as if expecting it to blister.

There was no answer given. House left without ever saying a word.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

_House_

_Why had I kept Wilson here?_

_Why had I insisted upon caring for him myself?_

_Every member of my team had called at one point and they had all noted that my behavior was out of character. Foreman had gone so far as to suggest that House was feverish myself._

_I couldn't dismiss this act as for my own benefit. There was no real debt I could be repaying. Wilson had watched out for me before, but I didn't feel the need to repay any of those times._

_Charitable…_

_Caring…_

_Those were not words that anyone had ever before used to describe Gregory House. _

_I opened the cabinet and grabbed out the first can of soup I found…which by coincidence, was the first can I found. There were pluses to owning nearly no other type of food._

_I didn't want to admit that Wilson meant more to me than I thought. I liked to think that I could keep a safe distance between myself and everyone else. But Wilson mattered to me. I needed his approval, his care._

_I needed him._

_I, Gregory House, the pinnacle of independence and isolation, a man who made up lies to be alone, needed someone._

_I couldn't need him…to need…to love…was to be hurt…_

_And there is too much pain in my life already. _

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Greg! Greg! Greg!" Wilson's voice took on a hysterical note that made even Greg frightened.

House dropped the soup bowl, it shattered on the floor. He limped quickly towards his bedroom.

He could tell from James's voice that something was terribly wrong. He'd never heard Wilson sound so scared.

"Greg!"

House's leg protested the pace, but he ignored it.

"What?" James's fright must have been contagious because he heard a note of it in his own voice.

"We have to go to the hospital now." It was obvious that every breath was a labor for him. "Something's very wrong."

If Wilson hadn't seemed so serious about this, he would have made a sarcastic remark about how unnecessary that statement was.

House grabbed his beeper, he wasn't going to question his friend right now. He typed four words: _ambulance, my apartment._

"What's wrong?" He moved to Wilson's side.

"Pleuritic chest pain, tachycardia—"

House reached out and grabbed Wilson's hand. He wrapped his hand tightly around. "You're going to be alright."

He heard sirens in the distance.

"You have to be alright."

They were coming closer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Muha! I posted fast! Everyone should clap for me! I'm in the process of writing chapter six, so it should be up soon too! Hee hee, thanks so much to everyone who encourages me! I've never had such wonderful responses for any of my writing! I love you all!**

**Disclaimer: sigh No, just no.**

**And the little line thingy, section divider, what ever the hell it is, isn't working for me STILL! So, we have more random wordness as secition breaks.**

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

Chapter Five

House was caught in some sort of loop, all he could see was the flashing of red and blue lights and his ears were still filled with the wail of sirens. He sat in the ambulance swimming in a thick haze as if he were the one who lay, only partially conscious, instead of James. Sounds and colors all seemed too loud. Sensations far too real in a surreal world.

The paramedics moved in the small space with the nimbleness that would have made a dancer envious. But House didn't even notice them, even when they stood between him and Wilson, he could still see the other man. The image of his face was imprinted in his mind so sharply, that nothing could come between them.

James, it seemed was existing in some plane that House couldn't really see. A place part way between life and death. His eyes were partially closed, his mouth was still part-way opened. His breathing was only semi-audible. And House was sure that he was only partly conscious to the things that were happening around him. Nothing was complete, yet nothing lacked existence entirely.

_Are you leaving, James?_ _Leaving, like everyone else in my life. Why should this have been any different? I should have known that you'd go one day. Slip out of my life, so that I'd be alone…again… _

_It's some sort of twisted joke that life plays on me. I get close enough to someone to give a damn and then they're gone. First Stacy…now you… _

_I'm condemned aren't I? Condemned to be alone. To never be able to really feel. Condemned to pain._

"Greg—" The voice was weak and he hardly heard it above the clamor of the sirens and the pounding of his own heart.

"James?" House turned and reached out his hand to touch Wilson's hand, but the ambulance doors were thrown open and Wilson was gone. The paramedics were racing him down the hall.

House slowly stood and gingerly slipped down from the ambulance and followed the retreating form of his friend through the far too bright, far too white corridors of Princeton Plainsbrough Teaching Hospital.

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

_Cuddy_

_I've decided, what ever son of a bitch decided that spike heels were appropriate attire for the head of a hospital was a sadomasochist and deserves to have his own invention shoved up his ass._

_I'd had to run in heels before, it wasn't an experience I liked to repeat often, but House's page made it a necessity._

_House had never sent me a page so disjointed and so worrisome. It was obvious that he was in extreme pain. I'd dialed 9-1-1 immediately, before I'd even finished reading the message. The dispatcher wasn't pleased about my inability to describe the situation. That's when years of dealing with House come in handy, anyone else is an amateur._

_I didn't stop to grumble about the dispatcher…another bonus of them not being nearly as skilled at pissing me off as House was, I was used to the abuse and the sarcasm, it took much more than a whiney dispatcher to set me off._

_God, if something has happened to him…_

_I'll kill him._

_Dammit! I'll kill him! If anything is terribly wrong, I'll kill him._

_If anything isn't terribly wrong and he's made me go through all this for nothing, I'll kill him._

_What could he have possibly done? He'd probably overdosed on Viccodin…but if he'd done that he probably wouldn't be paging for an ambulance, it would've been Wilson. _

_Why hadn't it been Wilson who'd paged?_

_Maybe he'd fallen and Wilson was sleeping, maybe Wilson couldn't hear House from the other room. The two had such a strange connection though; you'd think that Wilson would instinctively know when something was wrong with House. I don't think that I understand those two; I don't think that I ever will. House is abrasive, stand-offish, and misanthropic. He's so involved in himself and the strength that it takes for him to go on everyday. Wilson is gentler, firm only when necessary, and he'd probably be far more personable if he weren't so wrapped up in House. But they cling to each other, because each is all the other has._

_I skidded around the corner to the ER, nearly tripping over the damn red heels that I'd decided to wear this morning. _

Tennis shoes. Tennis shoes. God, I'm going out and buying tennis shoes_. I thought, it was some sort of mantra that I repeated in my head after each loud "click" of a heel._

_The sliding doors to the ER whizzed open and a gurney flanked by three paramedics rushed in._

"_What happened this time?" I asked, falling into step along side the first paramedic. I didn't even bother to look down at the man; I didn't want to look into those pain ridden eyes. I'd seen them too many times._

"_Dunno." One of the paramedics answered._

_I was going to snap at him for his inarticulacy, when one of his colleagues covered for the inadequate response._

"_Tachycardia, pulse is 130, and tachypnea, respiration's 22, we might have to intubate soon if it gets worse. Pleuritic chest pain and a cough. No fever currently, but he's had one for the past three days or so."_

_House hadn't had a fever for the past few days…that meant…_

_I looked down._

_It wasn't House._

"_Wilson?"_

_I stopped short, the gurney continued on towards the ICU, and I watched it go, unable to get my mind around this development._

"_Wilson?"_

"_You were expecting me, weren't you?" The voice startled me. I turned, here was the face that I had been expecting to see._

"_Ye—I—ye—I—I—just assumed from your message that you were the one in pain." I fumbled for what to say. So much for my being quick-witted enough to keep up with House. I still hadn't quite realized that he was standing and that Wilson was the one being rushed into the intensive care unit._

_Greg looked at me. I'd never really seen this look before, but I didn't have to be Wilson to read his thoughts. He was in pain, real pain. The kind of pain you only feel when you can't do anything about someone you care for being hurt. I'd been there hundreds of times before with him. I couldn't believe that look was coming out of those eyes._

"_He's going to be alright." I offered, I wanted to do anything to rid his eyes of that look. "It's probably just pneumonia, it's been developing for days and it just finally peaked. He'll be okay."_

"_You blame me." _

"_What?"_

"_You blame me."_

"_I don't understand."_

"_I should have brought him in earlier." He turned his back to me and moved off down the hallway, in the opposite direction Wilson had gone. _

_I didn't know what to say to him._

_I let him go. Sometimes House needed his solitude. He thought he was clever in sneaking away and hiding in his office or on the roof. But I always knew, I knew that he needed his space to hide. _

"_And you're right you know. It is my fault." His voice was barely audible over the distance between us. _

_And it wasn't just physical distance either. He was putting up those walls again, the walls that only came down for Wilson. If Wilson died, he wouldn't ever open up for anyone again._

_But that wouldn't happen. James would be alright. Last time I checked, pneumonia was one of those diseases we could treat._

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

Nine-forty four and forty seven seconds…

Nine-forty four and forty eight seconds…

Another twelve seconds and Cameron was officially off duty and could go home. Normally, she loved her job enough to want to hang around for a few minutes afterward, but she was exhausted today. House hadn't been in for days so she'd been covering all his clinic duty on top of her own. Chase and Foreman were content to lounge about the office while the boss was away, but Cameron had felt the need to clean and reorganize and answer years of House's unopened mail—something he'd never get around to doing himself. She'd hardly sat down all day, and she was only sitting now in order to run a few tests in the lab.

"Cameron?"

"Back here." She called.

Cuddy came in holding a couple of vials and a case file in one hand. She was wearing her lab coat, that wasn't a good sign. There was a new case and she needed Cameron to run tests.

Nine-forty four and fifty-five seconds.

Five seconds too soon.

Trying to hide her obvious disappointment, she turned to the administrator. "Mm-hmm?"

"I need these test results run, stat." Cuddy seemed worried, this also was not a good sign. "Especially check for signs of pneumonia."

"Wait, I'm running tests on a pneumonia patient?" She let a little of her annoyance slip past her sunshine-y exterior.

Cuddy handed her the file and placed the vials down on the counter. She was gone in a flash of red-leather heels and white lab coat.

Cameron opened the file.

Wilson, James.

It fell from her hands.

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

"Severe thrombocytopenia, leukocytosis, BUN is very high, and he tested positive for nitrates and proteins in the urine." Cameron was standing in front of House's desk, her hand clenched nervously behind her back. "The X-ray came back and it's not good either. There are nodular infiltrates on both sides of the chest with fluid leakage into either side." Cameron said this all as quietly as she could, as if keeping her voice low would make the symptoms less severe.

He turned away from her to look out the window.

"That doesn't make sense. It can't be right."

"So much for our diagnosis of pneumonia." Cuddy had been listening from the door.

"Get Chase and Foreman in here now."

"House, they've gone home, it's nearly eleven."

"I don't give a damn! Get them in here, now! We need to do a differential!"

Cameron scrambled to disappear about the door as quickly as possible. Cuddy gave House one last remorseful look. He was already again lost in his own inner torment. He didn't notice it.

She paged Chase and Foreman.

She'd nearly left the room when she thought she heard House's whisper: "Dammit, James, you have to be alright." But she'd never be able to be sure if she'd really heard it or not.

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

**A/N I'm going to explain what all the medical terms mean in the next chapter. So don't go looking them up…unless you really feel like it. Poor poor Wilson. Sorry, this is kinda a filler chapter, but some of those are needed I guess.**

**The button is right there, I know you see it!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Finally! An update! I'd like to thank everyone who reviews this! It makes me so happy to know that people like and enjoy my work. Because, be honest, any one who writes purely for themselves, can't be that great a writer. We write and expect to receive validation and encouragement from others, so thank you so much for that! I hope this chapter doesn't sound too redundant. I've been sick recently and I wrote this while I was running a fever, so I hope it's not too disjointed! Hee hee. Thanks! And love to everyone!**

**Disclaimer: House is mine!...well, season 2 on DVD is….**

Chapter Six

He leaned on his cane, head rolled forward. To anyone outside it would have looked like he was gazing down at the man who slept below him in the bed, but his eyes were closed. House wasn't watching because he couldn't watch. A feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced before cut through his breast making his throat close over and his heart pound in his ears.

"Jimmy," He so rarely used this shortened form of the other man's name, and when he did it was never said with such tenderness but rather with mocking spite. "I don't know what to do."

_Do what you always do. Work your "voodoo", House. You can do it for anyone else, can't you do it for your best friend?_

He looked down at Wilson again and tried to shove the nagging voice away from the front of his brain. It didn't work. The small voice kept yelling at him. Wilson was sick, why wasn't he doing anything.

He needed a whiteboard and a maker….well, he had one of those things, in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and glanced around the room. Cuddy would murder him if he wrote on the walls.

_You could just go back to your office._

"Now, I know you're a stupid voice." He whispered aloud. He didn't want to finish that sentence and say that he didn't want to leave Wilson.

The glass wall would do perfectly fine.

He didn't even bother to draw the blinds.

In large block letters he began printing Wilson's symptoms.

COUGH

PLEURITIC CHEST PAIN

TACHYCARDIA

TACHYPNEA

Four symptoms and already his hands were shaking violently. There written out on the glass wall were the things that could end Wilson's life. And there were still many more to write.

THROMBOCYTOPENIA

Severely low number of platelets.

LEUKOCYTOSIS

Elevation of the white blood cell count

PETECHIAE

Red spots on lower extremities that were a result of the low platelet count.

How was he expected to keep writing out these words? Cold, scientific, Latin words that didn't describe the danger to Wilson. Dispassionate words. Empty words. Meaningless words. Had there been a word for pain that went deep enough he would have written it. Had there been a word for fear that described what he was going through, he would have written it.

But all he had were these medical terms.

So he kept writing.

His hand shook even more, so his clear, block letters seemed comically childish.

BUN 86

Blood Urea Nitrogen 66 points above normal

ELEVATED PT

Elevated clotting time.

DISSEMINATED INTRAVASCULAR COAGULATION

Systematic clotting of the blood.

The marker finally fell away from his hand. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't help Wilson.

The room suddenly seemed so small, as if those white walls were closing in around him. The disinfected smell made his throat close over and his heart race as if he were the one suffering from tachycardia.

He had to get out.

The words peered down at him, each one several large, red eyes, challenging him.

_Figure it out, Gregory._

_Solve the puzzle, Gregory._

_Put it together, Gregory._

He had to get out.

He did.

He moved as quickly as he could away from Wilson lying in the bed and out into the hall, but even that seemed to confining. The roof. He had to get to the roof and get away from everything.

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

_Wilson_

_Words are written on the wall._

_Blurry shapes that come to me from a different world. They mean things I can't quite remember. _

_Letters shift and change under my vision. Like red blood they spread and then again are pulled together. They spell one word._

_Death._

_Writing on the glass._

_Everything is spelled out there for the world to see. _

_But I am alone._

_How can it be that any stranger walking by could read (in reverse) what is wrong with me. Maybe one of them sees beyond that. I'd think that she's young, too young to realize what all the medical words mean. In fact, she's too young to read at all, she thinks they're pictures. She wanders by and stops to look at them for a moment. I don't know why she'd be here. I hate to think of anyone else's tragedy but my own. But as this strange girl gazes she sees beyond the words that label me as an invalid, that condemn my existence to sickness. And she sees me. Her eyes are soft blue and she presses her nose to the glass right between the "C" and the "O" of coagulation. There, framed by those two letters, like oversized red glasses perched on her nose, she looks at me. She sees that I'm alone. He's gone. And I have no one. I've torn myself away from everyone else to be with him, and now, he too has abandoned me. _

_I don't know why I find comfort in the image of this girl looking in at me. Maybe because it makes me think that I'm not alone. That if she would stop and look for long enough she'd be inclined to walk in. She wouldn't see the word "death" that seems to be written on my wall. She'd only see me, sad and alone. _

_But she's not real._

_The only real person who should have given a damn about me was House. And he'd run away. I'd watched him go._

_He's weak._

_In everyway._

_Physically…_

_Emotionally…_

_House is weak._

_And I need him not to be. I need him, for once, to be the one that picks me up when I fall and hold me close when I cry. But he's running out the door._

_I'm weak._

_Condemned by my sickness. I'm labeled as an invalid. Ancient times would have said that my own sin brought this illness down upon me. Maybe it was my own sin, if there is a God in heaven he's using me to get to House. To give House one swift kick in the ass. What a God. _

_Or maybe, this is to show me something. Something about him. Something that I was too blind to see before._

_House is weak._

_But I'd known that. _

_No, not on the same level that I know it now. I'd always known his physical weaknesses. His crippling. And to some extent, I'd known the emotional ones. He couldn't love, couldn't let anyone, except me, into his life. But I thought that if I ever really need him, he might be there._

_He was for a little bit._

_Remember._

_He cared for you._

_Up until I was as physically weak as he was._

_Oh, physician, cure yourself._

_Because those who should, can't._

_And those who can, won't._

_Am I left to be strong enough for House and myself again?_

_I can't die. He'll blame himself._

_Rightfully so, it would be his fault._

_I can die. I won't live like this. I won't simply be a list of condemnations on a glass wall. I won't be as weak as he is. Not physically. Not emotionally. I refuse to do that. _

_House is weak._

_I can't be weak as well._

_I have to fight it._

_Or I have to give in to the words on the glass._

_I have to pick up the pieces._

_Or I have to shatter what is already broken._

_I won't linger, like he does._

_I won't live in pain, like he does._

_Those things aren't a sign of strength. It's weakness. Pure weakness. He simply won't give in to the words of his own that are written on the glass wall. He's covered his wall and allowed everyone walking by to see it._

_I won't._

_One of us has to be stronger than that._

_One of us has to be unafraid._

_One of us has to be the one to save the other._

_And I know that my weakness would only cause him more suffering, so I have to save him. _

_I have to save House, as usual._

_I'll be the strong one._

_I'll be the one to keep him safe and as far from pain as is possible._

_I'll be the one to let go._

_Because he's not strong enough to carry me._

_And I can't carry him anymore._

_I'm done picking up the pieces._

_I'm done._

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

_House_

_I looked down at the dark New Jersey night. I placed my I-pod on shuffle, but I wasn't really listening to the music. I was just trying to forget about him. But I couldn't ever truly get him out of my mind. I didn't know why. I felt like I'd made a mistake._

I don't need to fight…

To prove I'm right…

I don't need to be forgiven…

_The song lyrics were some sort of odd motto for me. I didn't need to be forgiven...so why do I feel so guilty? I hadn't done anything wrong. But still the gnawing feeling that I'd run out on Wilson was thick within me. Why did I feel that way? That I'd left him to suffer alone, with no answers._

_Because Wilson had never left me alone in pain. Never._

I don't need to be forgiven…

_Yes…I do…_


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm back! Finally! I'm sorry it took me so long to update! Everything in my life is going insane right now! But here's this chapter anyway. The section by House is very lyrical and reads more like an unrhymed poem, in my opinion, than as prose. But tell me what you think! **

**Thanks so much everyone who reviews!**

**All my love**

**Love and Music are Forever**

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

Chapter Seven

Midnight, the hospital was mostly silent, except for the outer part of the office of Gregory House. Four very sleepy-looking people were gathered around the desk, they nursed cups of coffee with the distaste that only came from drinking bad coffee far too early in the morning. And the only reason they kept bringing the bitter, dark liquid to their lips was so as to not succumb to their exhaustion.

The fifth occupant of the room was the only one not drinking coffee, probably because he had been the one to make it and knew that it tasted horrible. And also, because some inner fever was keeping him awake.

Half of the white board was filled with his quick, scrawled writing, while the other half remained blank. The heading "differential" was placed at the top, urging some suggestion to be written in the clean space below.

House was anxious. If you couldn't read it on his face, by the half-crazed look in his eyes, then it was obvious from his stance. The way he kept shifting from one foot to the other, well…not exactly the other foot, seeing as he couldn't truly stand on his injured leg, but he would instead lean all of his weight on his cane, then, back again to his good foot.

He held the erasable marker in two fingers and was tapping it against the wood of his cane in time with the clock. The movement was reflexive and he didn't even realize that he was doing it.

The incessant tapping however was driving Chase insane, and he decided that he needed to say something anything, just to get House to write it down so that the clicking would stop for a few moments.

"It could be meningitis." He piped up.

"Wonderful, Chase, seeing as that explains only a few of his previous symptoms, and absolutely none of the ones he's currently suffering from!" House hurled the marker across the room at Chase, who ducked, even though the shot feel terribly short and landed in his coffee, spraying him with the scalding liquid.

"Ow."

"Baby!"

"Shut up, and do the differential." Cameron snapped.

"Ooh," House grinned at her. "Snippy now are we."

"Why are you so comfortable with all of this! He's in there and we don't know what's going on and you're…you're…pretending he's any other patient."

_Maybe because that's the only that way that I'll be able to get through this. _He thought, but didn't say this aloud.

The caffeine seemed to finally have kicked in for Cuddy, she glanced up and her eyes no longer had the glazed, "I'm-not-really-conscious" look. "RMSF" She suggested.

"One point to Cuddy for actually suggesting a disease that explains a few of the previous symptoms as well as the current ones, you've got one up on Chase…two, actually, you're sexier."

Cameron glared at House again; he faked an admonished look and wrote down _Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever _on the white board. "Presents with fever and what we've called petechiae could be the traditional rash that it presents with. Possible, but unlikely seeing the platelet count." He said.

"Septic Thrombophlebitis." Foreman said, without ever opening his eyes, he seemed to have the least trouble dealing with this case would any other patient. "Disintegration of the vein that produces platelets would explain his low platelet count."

"A platelet producing problem caused by an error in the platelet production center!" House mocked, writing down the idea anyway. "No shit, Sherlock! Oh, wait, wasn't Holmes white?"

As usual, Foreman ignored the racist comment and went back to dozing.

"Wegner's granulomatosis." Cameron suggested, tersely. "Presents with fever, fatigue, respiratory symptoms, rash, and sometimes heart problems."

"Show-off." House grumbled, but scribbled down her suggestion anyway.

Epstein-barr virus, cytomegalovirus were added to the list after suggestions by Foreman and Chase, respectively.

RMSF

Septic Thrombophlebitis

Wegner's Granulomatosis

EBV

CMV

Each one of them like a warrant for Wilson's execution, a death sentence. Again House had the feeling that the walls were closing in on him that his world was shutting down but he couldn't let that consume him. Not now. He would fight it. He had to find the answer.

He glanced at the board, rubbing his temples hard with his right hand. He was trying to stave off the panic welling inside him.

Concentrate.

"Do a blood culture to check for RMSF, EBV, and CMV, take a chest x-ray and look at the nodular infiltrates and get a CT scan, and an MRI."

_Covering all the bases?_ He asked, that normally wasn't something he did. Testing was going to waste valuable time. He should select the most likely diagnosis and simply begin treatment.

No one argued with him.

They all stumbled away from the table to follow his orders. Wilson would have been the one to stay and talk to him.

He wished he was there.

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

_House_

_What would you say to me?_

_What would you tell me to do!_

_Please!_

_You're always the strong one._

_You're the one who knows what to do when I get lost._

_Well, I'm lost now._

_I feel like you abandoned me._

_You were weak._

_You can't be._

_I'm weak enough for both of us._

_You held me when I fell._

_And now you're expecting me to pick up the pieces._

_You need me._

_Need me to be the one to hold you up._

_I can't do it!_

_Don't you understand?_

_I can't be there for you._

_That's not how it works._

_I'm the dependent one._

_I'm the one who needs you._

_I can't be alone like this._

_I can't help you._

_I can't help myself._

_I can't…_

_I can't…_

_I can't…_

_I'm weak…_

_I'm crippled…_

_I wish I could do better._

_Wish I could be more for you._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_Don't look at me._

_I can't look into your eyes and say it._

_I can't face you._

_I can't walk in there again._

_I'd feel the world close._

_I'd hear you breathing nearby._

_Such shallow breaths._

_I'd blame myself._

_And I can't take that on._

_I can't believe that this is my doing._

_Even if it is…_

_I can't do it!_

_I can't help you!_

_You need me!_

_But I can't do it._

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so sorry._

_I'm so weak._

House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D. House M.D.

_Wilson_

_He wasn't going to come back, I knew that. I knew he wasn't going to return. So it would be alright. My decision was the right one, I knew it. My heart was so set upon the goal._

_He wouldn't be the one to find me._

_He'd never be able to come to terms with it if he was._

_But I couldn't do this to him._

_It tore him apart inside._

_It was killing him._

_I had to stop it._

_I would stop it. _

_The pills were so close. A finger's length away. It would take no effort for me to reach out and take them. I wouldn't even have to roll over. You'd think that they wouldn't leave so many dangerous things around a terminal patient. Don't they know that we all want it just to be over with? _

_Maybe some people can fight._

_I can't._

_I have no one from which to draw strength, I'm alone._

_So very alone._

_And my existence hurts him._

_I reached out. My cold hand clenched around the bottle._

_It would be so easy._

_The cap snapped off—child-proof? For what child?_

_Dozens of pills spilled into my hand._

_It would be so easy._

…

_It was so easy..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay, it's about eleven o'clock and I just wrote one of the best chapters of this entire story…if I do say so myself….hee hee. I don't know exactly why I like it so much, I just think it came out exactly like I wanted it to. I'm sorry if the HUGE number of section breaks is confusing to anybody. As usual, it would make my day if you would review and tell me what you thought. **

**Thanks so much!**

**And sorry for the long wait!**

**Love and Music are Forever

* * *

**

Chapter Eight

Two dozen white pills spilled out from the bottle into his trembling hand. Two dozen ways to finally escape from every pain. Lying in his palm, they were like some arrow point him towards salvation. Here, were twenty-four ways to cleanse his soul from twenty-four sins.

He picked up the first pill, holding it gently between two fingers as a jeweler would to examine a diamond.

_My first sin._

One: Believing that he could be strong enough to save the world, and to save House—the sin of pride.

He swallowed the pill, and with it, swallowed his pride. The sin was washed away.

Two: Following his desires in bedding the women he'd wanted. He'd ended up married to three of them because he'd needed an outlet for his irrepressible passion—that one was called lust.

Swallow and be healed.

Three: Wanting House here, now, to care for him and him alone. Wasn't that the sin of greed?

Another blemish swept away.

* * *

House instinctively knew that something was wrong. He felt as if the barrel of a gun had just been aimed at his head, even though there was no one around, and no gun in sight. Fear tightened in his breast. He'd had this feeling once, and only once, before, when, with trembling hands, he'd raised a knife to take his own life on the floor of his kitchen.

"James."

He was about to make a terrible mistake.

* * *

Four: He desired House's courage. No…it wasn't courage, it was audacity. The ability to say everything he thought. To be just as respected even if there was animosity directed towards him for his abrasive nature. He wanted to be held in such high esteem that nothing could truly make him fall from grace—that one was easy. Envy.

And retribution is made.

Twenty more sins for which he had yet to atone.

Five: He hated House. He hated him for not being there for him. Hated him for leaving him alone. Hated him for not being able to help him. He hated him for being so weak. And he found that it was so easy to hate him. That sin was anger.

Five transgressions washed clean.

* * *

White pills making a tarnished soul white once again

House was moving as quickly as he could…it would never be fast enough. The hall stretched out life an endless chasm before him and his infirmity made it an impossibility to cross.

_Faster_

_Faster_

_Faster_

He urged himself on.

"James."

He was about to do something he'd regret…if he lived to regret it…

* * *

Six: Overindulgence. He loved to be the hero. The strong one, the one who could make everything okay. He hungered for the rush that it gave him and craved it when it was absent. In some way, he was addicted to it and couldn't live with out it. House had is vicodin, Wilson his hunger for power. Gluttony.

Walk forward into the light.

Seven: He wanted to slowly slip away into darkness and no longer fight for anything. He wanted the easy way out—was that sloth?

Swallow and be healed.

Eight: Marriage, even if not made in love, was still sacred and every time he had dishonored it. Adultery.

The list stretched on before him, swimming in his vision the same way the writing on the wall had.

Sixteen more sins remained. And already his head was reeling from the weight of what remained and the relief of what was gone.

* * *

"James!" House threw open the door and lunged forward before he had even fully taken in the situation.

The movement was shaky and would have made a whole man stumble on his feet. House's leg, already weak from his mad "dash" down the hallway, finally gave out underneath him. But his momentum managed to carry him far enough forward that he reached out and grabbed his friend's wrist, not only stopping his fall, but also causing the pills to spiral away.

What number, what sin, was that?

Two blood-curdling screams echoed out in unison.

One in agony and one in the pain of loss.

But who could have told the difference between them. The sound was identical; pain of all kinds is just as painful.

House hadn't seen how many of those pills went flying, but he now saw them on the floor, his keen eyes spotting the white against white.

How many had he taken?

House managed to remain clinging to the side of the bed. His face was as white as his knuckles from the effort of trying to hold his weight off of his knee.

"Why?"

Wilson had never seen a look of such disappointment, such fear.

He didn't answer. He turned his head away, and reached out for a pill that had landed on the bed spread.

House's hand sprang forward and swept the pill away. It clattered on the floor like a raindrop.

"Why!"

"I won't live like this! Infirm! Weak! It's weakness to not give into death, only the fear of dying holds us back! I'm not weak. Weak, like y—" His voice stopped so suddenly that it cracked.

"Like me." The other man finished for him as smoothly as if he had expected the hesitation. The whispered reply was: "Yes."

The words flowered so smoothly it was as if they were reading lines. But, in a way, they were. They'd both written the script years ago, and rehearsed it in their mind everyday, it was no wonder that the lines seemed to go off without a hitch.

House turned his head away, as if shamed. "You're wrong, James." He slowly pulled himself up.

Wilson didn't know what amount of physical strength that single act had taken, but it was strength that House had never had possessed

"You're so wrong, James. It takes strength not to surrender to the easy way out. Death is a coward's escape. It takes me more strength to every day go on than it does for you to give up. Every time that I put the pills down, put the knife back, I got stronger. I get stronger by fighting everyday. You'll never have that chance if you let go, give up now."

The words were icy cold and burned even more than the toxins that were racing through Wilson's blood.

"I thought you, of all people, understood that. Understood that I gave every day all I had because that was the only way I could get through it. I hate you for this."

* * *

_House_

_I turned away. What else was there to do, but turn away and hide my face? So I didn't have to look at the anger and despair in those eyes._

_Wilson was the only man I'd ever trusted, and that trust was thrown back in my face. I'd shared my weakness with him and he flaunted it in front of me calling me that thing I hated most—weak._

_It's the people we love the most who are the ones who can hurt us the most…in fact, they're the only people who can ever _really_ hurt us. Our enemies can't get as deep under our skin._

_I should've known not to trust. _

_I was weak. Weak for opening up, giving Wilson my heart.

* * *

_

Wilson's heart rate flat lined.

"How many did you take!" House screeched and grabbed Wilson's shoulder. "How many?

* * *

_House_

_Why did I care so much for a man who had betrayed me? Why!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry for the long delay! But here's the update! I'll try to update faster but my life is just a little too insane. I'm already halfway through writing chapter ten tho, so it SHOULD be faster. I'll shut up and let you read! Love to all!

* * *

**

Chapter Nine

_Don't breathe too deep…_

_Don't listen to the thud of your own heart…_

_Don't hear the lack of Wilson's…_

"Get a crash cart!" House screamed, yanking the door open for a nurse who had heard the screech of the heart monitor from the other room and come running.

Dropping his cane, he yanked down the sheet and tore open the front of Wilson's hospital gown. It horrified him even more to look down and not see the flutter of breath rising and falling in his best friend's chest.

His best friend…

What had friendship meant if it had been so easily cast aside because of Wilson's own fears? Wasn't friendship defined by loyalty, devotion, and care? Wilson had shown him none of those things today. How could he continue to think of him as his best friend… or even as a friend?

How could he treat him as a doctor when mere moments before his anger screamed for the man's death.

The nurse reappeared with a crash cart and two other nurses in toe. House grabbed the defibrillating paddles from her hands, and waited impatiently as she applied gel to both sides. He slammed them down on Wilson's chest. "Clear!"

The man's body lurched from the jolt of electricity, but there was no change, not even a blip on the monitor.

"Clear!"

Nothing.

House thought his own heart must have stopped beating as well, but the only reason he knew it hadn't, was because he could still hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He heard it over the high, wailing note of the heart monitor. It sounded almost like an anguished scream. A scream that House felt bubbling towards his own lips.

"Clear!"

* * *

_Cuddy_

_I saw them go flying, like deer away from a gunshot. But, unlike the animals they seemed to emulate, they didn't scatter, but all headed towards a single destination. _

_I didn't realize that my hand was gripping the counter until I felt one of my fingernails snap. I realized I'd have to call my manicurist and get it fixed before the nail chipped even further. The fact that something as trivial as this registered with me kicked me back to reality._

_I knew that room too well to have to even check the patient list to find the name of its occupant._

_The blinds had been pulled shut over the windows, standard procedure to make sure that no one watched from the other side, especially the family, it was better that they didn't see as doctors wrestled with death. _

_I should have stayed outside those blinds. Wilson was my head of oncology, sure, but more than that, he was my friend, and my confidant. He was the only one who understood House, and therefore, the only one I could turn to when I had a "House-problem"…and I had those quite often. I should have been his friend and stayed on the other side of the glass, left only to worry. _

_I wasn't his doctor, but when I entered the room I took on the task. I was forced to put aside my thoughts of him as friend, my feelings for him as colleague and he was just another name on just another chart, just another life that I fought to save. _

_I was locked in the struggle, grabbling with the demon—death. We had medical terms for it, cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, but they all came down to the same thing, an end of life, an emptiness we couldn't control. As doctors, we were constantly caught in this battle with it, and we knew that we could never ultimately win. We fought our entire lives to beat back death, but any victory was only temporary, because, in the end, death would be the victor. Even in our own lives, we too would fall susceptible to old age, and then be exterminated by death. Sometimes I wondered what we were fighting for. Sometimes I wanted to give up fighting._

_And yet, I stood, and I watched as death snaked its icy hands around Wilson's throat drawing him to its breast. I could hear its laughter in the scream of the flat line of the heart monitor. _

_We'd lost._

"_Clear!"_

_House was still fighting. He stabbed at death with every fiber within him, clawing desperately to grab Wilson back. _

_It was too late._

_He had to give up._

"_Clear! Charging! Clear!"_

_Tears landed with every word, his tears, my tears, what difference did it make? Death had won, but House didn't see that yet. _

"_House."_

"_Clear!"_

"_House!"_

"_Clear!"_

"_HOUSE!"_

_He looked up finally, his blue eyes red from tears, the paddles still clenched in his hands. _

"_It's over." I whispered._

"_No."_

"_House, it's over. He's gone."_

"_NO!" He threw the paddles back towards the nurse, who by some miracle, managed to catch them. _

"_I'm sorry." _

"_No, the last thing I ever said to him was that I hated him."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH! DAMMIT!" He turned and pounded his hands into Wilson's chest, as if manual CPR would be good enough where electronic resuscitation had failed. _

"_House, please, listen to me! Let him go!" I couldn't stand to have him fight anymore; it was only tearing me apart to watch it. "He's gone! You can't change it! You can't fix it! You lost. We lost. You didn't figure it out in time. And now, he's gone! You can't change that."_

"_We had time! He ended it! He wouldn't give me the chance! He wouldn't give me the time."_

_I didn't understand. _

"_James." House wailed, his scream joining that of the heart monitor._

_I reached over to unplug the machine; I couldn't stand to listen to that noise anymore. _

_My hand grasped the cord, and there was a beep. _

_Everyone froze._

_Another._

_Another._

_Slow and irregular it began but slowly grew. _

_Never has there been a more welcome sound.

* * *

_

_House_

_Never had there been a more welcome sound. For whole moments I was alone in the world. I had no one. He was gone, lying there, under my hands, dead. And I hadn't been able to do anything about it. I hadn't been able to stop him. I had failed, and I had no one to turn to. Those were the longest, worst moments of my entire life. I never want that. I could never face that._

_I sobbed and leaned my head against his shoulder, my ear against his heart. I was in the way of the nurses who were trying to work, but I didn't care, I couldn't move. I was mesmerized by the sound of his heart. _

_He was alive. I was alive._

_And I wasn't alone. _

"_James. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I whispered. "I never meant to leave you so alone because you had to watch out for me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I didn't even quite realize what I was saying. I couldn't hear myself speak because my words were muffled into his shoulder. "Don't leave me. God, please, don't leave me. I need you. I love you. James." _

_I felt a hand reach up and press against the back of my head. _

_His hand. _

_He was alive and so, I was alive, because without him, I was nothing. _

_But suddenly, I drew back; he had left me, cared nothing for me. _

_I pulled back is if burned._

_No…It couldn't be…_

_I hated him. _


	10. Chapter 10

**AH!! I'm back from the underworld known as "musical-production"…aka three-four hours of insane dancing and singing every day after school. I get to school before the sun comes up and leave after it's gone down…aye…sadly meaning I have NO time to work on this fic, but I did manage to FINALLY type up chapter ten. But I'll stop blathering so you can read and review! **

**Kisses!! **

Chapter Ten

Gregory House sat in his office with his oversized, cherry-colored tennis ball balanced in the crook of his cane. He flicked his wrist to toss it up, and then carefully maneuvered his cane to catch it as it fell. It was a skill that he had honed, and he was now quite proud of his ability to do it without so much as thinking.

He didn't even watch the ball as it whirled towards the ceiling, each time it nearly brushed the top; it hurtled back down to land neatly, every time, in the center of the handle of his cane.

A medical text book was open on the desk but he'd given up on looking at it. The name and cure for Wilson's sickness eluded him.

House thought of another time when he'd sat in the same chair, with the same ball headed towards the same ceiling, and falling back towards the same cane. He wished he was having the same sort of innocent thoughts he'd been having then. He wished that the same man was standing outside the window looking in at him, thinking that he didn't notice.

Wilson thought that that he hid his meditation, but rather, it was House who let Wilson have his quiet moments of contemplation, even when he knew Wilson was thinking about him. Too often he saw the far away look in Wilson's eyes, then that gaze would turn and focus on him. Eyes would narrow into a stare that seemed to take in everything, and then they would turn inward, until the whole world was closed off, and Gregory House was all that remained. House realized that Wilson always saw him like that.

Wilson had a way of looking at the larger world. He was one of those people who judged all aspects of the situation, not because of some moral duty, but rather because he was capable of seeing all aspects of the situation; something very few people could do.

But then, there was the other side of his vision.

This was the side that saw House and only House. When Wilson turned his attention to House everything else was shut out of his perception.

Why, though, why did he fell the need to ignore everything else simply to see House?

Because House's desires were selfish and House's life was only self-serving, and that if Wilson, even for a moment, tried to compare House with the rest of the world he would seem awfully insignificant and petty in comparison.

Wilson was infinitely wise.

He saw the truth about House. But he knew to keep that separate and removed because if he didn't he would cease to care about House. But he knew that House needed him. But the only way that he could allow himself to be bothered with House was to forget about all the concerns oft the rest of the world.

House didn't want to inflict that burden upon Wilson anymore.

There are two sorts of people in the world: the manipulators and the manipulateés. House was a manipulator, not by some malicious intention of his own. It was the only way he knew how to live. He was so filled with pain that the only way he could survive was to feed his pain with the pain of others. He needed to live off the other's emotions because he was incapable of feeling. Their satisfaction with him was not needed, because satisfaction itself was such a weak emotion. But hatred and respect were emotions he craved.

Wilson was a manipulateé, again, not by any fault of his own, other than his soft heart. Wilson cared too much for other people, and was able to become too emotionally attached them. As much as he tried to deny his emotions, saying that a doctor could not become emotionally involved, Wilson allowed himself to be manipulated because he cared for House. House felt that because he lacked all control over his own life that maybe if he controlled someone else's he would in turn have power over his own.

The over-sized tennis ball fell to the ground and rolled away under his desk where it wedged under his computer. Sighing, he leaned forward from his chair and tried to dislodge it with his cane. But the ball refused to budge. He scowled at it and tried to knock it loose a few more times before giving up.

House leaned back in his chair, using one hand to lift his crippled leg onto the desk. He massaged it gently, but didn't even feel his fingers as they gently worked the flesh. The wall blurred before him like a mirage in the desert. But, like a real mirage, the solution he searched for was just beyond his reach.

He closed his eyes and felt the haze of exhaustion sweep over him. But the restless nature of his mind kept him from dozing.

Symptoms and diseases flitted across his mind. Each word made him thick with honeyed fear.

He was so frightened it made him nearly nauseous, as if he'd drunk a gallon of molasses. But what was it about that fear that he found sweet?

The realization hit him, not the one he had originally been looking for, but rather this: was he afraid of not find the solution to Wilson's illness, or was he afraid of finding it? Wilson had hurt him so much and now he wanted him to be dead.

_God…_

He wanted him to be dead.

_House_

_Ice-cold flesh. Fingers, like cat whiskers across milk, skim over the pale surface. My touch so tentative, so hesitant, so frightened. The feel of him sends shivers down my spine. _

_I like it._

_His eyes though dark in life, are still open. They look up at me with a hollow gaze that should pierce my soul. I see the accusation there, and I should be wounded by that hatred. Those eyes clearly say, "You failed me." But, I find no sadness in that allegation. No guilt stabs my conscience._

"_You failed _me_." I whisper to the cold corpse. "You turned your back upon me. You were just another one. Another heartbreak, another pain."_

_I like it._

_Yelling at him, and his inability to answer or even defend his actions. So, I keep right on._

"_You should have been there for me. You should've helped me. And that's why I didn't help you. I could've done it. I didn't fail you, I chose my silence. I knew what it was that spread poison through your veins and I kept it secret. We're even now, my 'friend', you took my life. I take yours. Fair's fair."_

_Still I received no answer from the dead body._

_I love it._

_I pick up a marker and scrawl on the wall of the morgue. The steel is as cold as the bodies that the room itself holds._

Dr. James Wilson

Boy-Wonder Oncologist.

Failed lover. Failed friend.

Whose blood is on his own hands.

Rest in torment.

"_How do you like it now?" I screech and throw down the marker? "That's all you came to. Nothing. You were nothing. You were nothing! You were nothing to me, Jimmy! Nothing!!"_

_I twist ready to storm from the morgue. _

"_Nothing!" I scream, turning back from the door. _

_A glass vase bearing a single red rose is sitting on a shelf. I grab it and hurl it at the wall just above his head. It shatters into a hundred pieces, peppering his bare skin with needle-sharp fragments. Blood oozes out the way it does from dead bodies, blood just lingering under the surface happy, to slide out given the chance. _

_The rose petals are torn to shreds too. The stem had fallen to the floor broken into three, neat pieces. The petals are scattered over his body and across the ground, like pools of crimson blood themselves. _

_Was it fair that something so beautiful had been broken because of Wilson's mistake? _

_My life had been beautiful…perhaps not beautiful…but viable…until his mistake had broken it_

_I bend over slowly and begin to pick up the pieces. _

House awoke with a start.

He knew what was wrong with Wilson.

**Hahaha. Another cliff-hanger! LOL! Love! Reviews anyone? LOL! **


	11. Chapter 11

**So sorry for the delay everyone. If you can believe it this story is quickly drawing to a close. Hehe. But more drama in this chapter and some more angst…actually quite a lot of angst. And quite a few lovely House insights. **

**Love!

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Chapter Eleven

He looked in each one of the tall glass windows as he passed. No face turned toward him, no eyes dared to catch his. It made him feel so alone. He was an outsider, just the face at the window, peering in, but never able to touch anything.

Even that wasn't a good analogy. He even felt more isolated than that, as if he were too removed to even feel the glass pressed against his nose.

The world swam with a hundred unreal colors and sounds. It was a constant hum of activity that whirled around him dancing in closer, and then retreating back to linger on the edge of his consciousness, only to again move in with sickening speed. The floor was a dark abyss and even when his foot made contact with it, it didn't seem real, as if he were floating on a layer of water that just covered the tiles. House was sure that he would fall. The nauseas that was setting in made him feel drunk.

Fear was twisting inside him, threatening to tear him apart. Two words swirled around in his head they were the cure to a disease, but they seemed like some sort of death sentence that had been hung on _his _shoulders, even though the words were the condemnation of another man. Or were they the long sought reprieve?

_How can I save Wilson?_

_I hate Wilson_…

…

…_I want him to die_…

The moment the sentiment crossed his mind, House was nearly sick with the thought. He was a doctor! It was his job to save everyone, no matter his personal sentiments. He could be rude to them…but never would he allow someone to die when the answer was known to him.

Could he actually have just have wished for the death of someone?! And it wasn't just someone! It was James Wilson, a colleague, a friend, a man he loved.

_I don't love him, I hate him. _

But were love and hate so far apart? What was the true difference between those two emotions? Both were as two sides of a knife, and House himself was balanced on the razor-thin blade. He was waiting to fall to either side, because he could no longer stand this threat of being sliced in half. And from where he was standing, he was sure that the knife blade would go right through his heart.

Love and hate, night and day, black and white, constants of the universe, these "universal opposites" that cannot be compared. But love and hate are not nearly as different as they seem. They've been forced into the guise of inverses because people treat them as such. But in truth, they share so much. Both are types of passion. Both cause us to spend hour after hour in contemplation of the person or the object towards which the emotion is directed. They cause us to do irrational things and to say things we later regret. They are often kept secret for fear of insulting and many times they bring nothing but pain. Both drive us crazy…and give us a reason to go on.

Loathing, desire, abhorrence, devotion, detestation, and ardor all were types of fiery passion looking for a way to be expressed. If expressed as love, it because hugs and kisses and if hate it became blows (emotional and physical ones).

House didn't know how he could be expected to sort out his emotions towards the man when he couldn't sort out what emotions themselves meant.

He knew that if he felt any hatred at all, it should be directed toward the action, and not the man himself. Wilson had made a mistake, and he should not so readily forget all fondness for the man and replace it with hatred. Right? The man and the action were separate entities; he could hate one and love the other.

But was not a man defined by his actions?

Then again, did he even hate the action? Wilson had only said what he thought to be true. Candidness was a principal that House lived his life based on. He said what he thought. Why was he so vehemently against the same honesty being expressed towards him? He now sought to condemn a man for sins he himself was guilty of. How hypocritical was that?!

Love and hate.

It all came down to those two "conflicting" emotions. As soon as he could sort out what he really felt for the man, he would be able to answer the hundreds of questions that bubbled in his head, like a shaken soda, exploding everywhere. And then he would be able to save Wilson's life.

Love and hate.

Like two cartoon angels hovering above his shoulders the emotions lurked. They whispered their reasons in his ear, each encouraging their own course of action.

"Understand." The angel, named love, murmured her words, feather-soft like her wings.

"Begrudge!" Hate, the demon, snarled.

"Forgive!"

"Destroy!"

"Shut up!" House barked, trying to will the chaos to cease. But his words were powerless, a man trying to hold back the ocean. What was set into motion could never be withheld; the tide could not be stopped, or even turned, until the fundamental question had been answered.

Did he hate Wilson or did he love him?

Images swirled through his head. He remembered eyes filled with passionate hatred as a cold mouth moved on the word "weakness". He remembered a hand on his hair. He remembered his own hand wrapping tightly around the other man's forearm; his nails drawing blood as he tried not to cry out in pain. He remembered someone's words comforting him. He remembered someone saying his name with such tenderness as he had never heard

"James." He whispered in unison with the unheard voice, and reached out to steady himself on the wall.

James Wilson was the man who had done all these things. There were a hundred more good memories of the man than there were bad ones.

And for the first time, Gregory House wept openly. Tears rolled from his eyes eager to be shed, like rain soaking into parched land. He didn't know how long it had been since he had actually cried. But the salt tears seemed to release so much pain and fear built up over weeks and weeks of hiding his emotions under a strong mask of sarcastic remarks.

He knew in that moment that he loved Wilson, he had always loved Wilson. He was so afraid of rejection by the only man he'd ever loved that he'd feared loosing him so much that he'd wanted to hate him, rather than risk hearing those words again.

He loved Wilson enough that he could…and would…risk getting hurt one more time.

He had to save him, why had he even doubted it?

His face was tear-stained and blotchy, his nose was dripping; House was sure he had never looked any less attractive in his entire life. He caught sight of himself in the glass door to Cuddy's office and would have been disgusted by his appearance if it hadn't been for the grin that split his face in two.

"Sweet Jesus!" Cuddy shrieked as he walked in. She dropped her coffee and it spilled on the floor. "You look like a rapist! What's gotten into you?" She backed away from him, half-joking, half-genuinely frightened.

He laughed. Just laughed for the longest time.

"Sweet Jesus, you are a rapist!"

"I figured it out."

She didn't ask. She knew.

Cuddy ran to him and threw herself into his arms. They stood together crying and laughing.

Love and hate.

Crying and laughing.

Two more things that weren't as contradictatory as they were portrayed.

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**Next chapter sooner! I promise!**


	12. Chapter 12

**I am so fast!! Hehe. Aren't you all happy with me! Hardly a week? Not even a week? What was it? Well, I love you all desperately, surprises in this chapter!

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Chapter Twelve

"Lemierre's Syndrome," House calmly stated leaning over his Wilson in order to make sure that the IV needle was properly inserted into his forearm.

Coughing lightly, Wilson glanced up. But he could only hold the other man's gaze for a moment before he had to look away in shame. "You were right." He stared down at the corner of his blanket instead of at House; as if that would hide the scarlet flush that rose on his cheekbones.

"It's caused by Fusobacterium Necrophorum, they're gram-negative, obligate, anaerobic bacilli." House continued as if Wilson hadn't spoken. He'd never given so many truly irrelevant medical details to a patient, and he wasn't doing it now because Wilson was a doctor, but rather, because if he could ramble about the niceties he wouldn't have to deal with Wilson's real issue.

"I shouldn't have said the things I said to you. It wasn't fair…Greg…I…please… Greg…just answer me…"

"I should've—" And for half a second Wilson thought he was going to answer. "—seen it before, you had all the classic symptoms: pharyngeal infection, jugular vein phlebitits, disseminated intravascular coagulation, and—" He motioned for Wilson to open his mouth; which he did. "—yes, even pharyngotonsillitis." He moved back to fiddle with the IV tubing, trying to pretend to straighten it out…even thought it wasn't the least bit tangled. Wilson's hopes fell. He believed that House would do something, but more and more he was growing to believe that House would never face the issues and their friendship would disintegrate to feigned camaraderie

"Greg, please," James said, leaning up on his elbows. "listen to me. I know you don't want to talk about this, but just let me explain. I have to explain…" Wilson had no explanation though. He didn't know why he'd don it, but he thought he could make things right by an explanation…_any _explanation.

Greg was now playing with the monitors, but, strangely enough, he continued to look at the other man. Unlike James, who was still incapable of returning to gaze, and had addressed his entire previous speech to the blank television screen in the opposite corner from its intended recipient.

"We've put you on penicillin, metronidazole, and coumadin. It shouldn't take long before all the symptoms start to clear up. You should be back up again within the week, and after that, you'll just have to finish the full course of antibiotics and that's it."

James reached out and grabbed the other man's wrist and held it firmly, and for the first time, he managed to turn his eyes upward. "Thank you."

Finally, House decided to not ignore what was said, "You're my friend, of course I did it, it's my job, it wasn't a problem." Taking his wrist out of the death grip, he limped out of the room.

Wilson realized that he had, in one moment of uncontrollable rage, lost the man who had meant everything to him.

And he wept.

House leaned against the wall outside, massaging his leg gently, not because it was in any pain, but rather so that he'd have an excuse in case anyone asked why he was simply standing there.

He had no real hatred left.

No hatred left at all.

He was surprised by this. He had, for the longest time, wanted to hate Wilson, tried to hate Wilson, even believed that he had hated Wilson.

But he didn't…

Wilson's apology really wasn't needed; House knew that he wouldn't have reacted any differently. Previously, during fits of pain, he'd said things to Wilson he later regretted. He felt slightly odd having the man explain to him what he already understood. But Wilson was unready to forgive himself so easily…mostly because _he_ couldn't understand why he had done it.

House didn't really understand that part of it either. He couldn't rationalize it, he tried, and time and time again he came down to the same answer…there was no answer. Wilson was frightened, surely, but Wilson was not the type of man who would so easily give up on life. He was ready to throw his whole life away because of his fear of the unknown. That didn't fit Wilson at all.

House's mind flashed, and he saw before his eyes an open page covered in miniscule words. He tried to focus his eyes in order to cut through the gray haze of the vision to discover what it was that his mind was trying to show him.

Then—flash—highlighted, almost as if it were a part of a cartoon, two lines bounced out from the page.

Haze lifted and crept out of his mind on padded feet. And, left in its wake was House, grinning insanely, as he raced—as quickly as he could—back to his office. People slid against the walls, frightened by his maniacal smile, but he didn't notice any of them. His gaze had narrowed to a small point, the tip of an arrow flying towards his target.

The door slammed open making the adjoining glass panes shutter. Throwing his cane down on his desk, he began ripping medical books from his shelf and scattering them across the room. Pages fluttered like snow, hopeful; crumbling, then, and crashing like murdered doves—discarded. Dozens of these failed prayers littered the floor and covered the couch, left to be trodden on the way broken dreams so often are.

House began to doubt that the vision was grounded in reality but instead was only his mind playing games with him. The desires of his heart were too readily becoming the beliefs of his mind.

"What are you doing?!" Cuddy dashed through the door knocking aside a book that had been about to hit her in the forehead.

House didn't answer her.

He'd found it.

It was old, red cloth bound with frayed edges. Yet, he held it as carefully between his hands as if it were made of gold leaf and liable to crumble if handled to brusquely. He opened it just as carefully, turning each page ever so slowly.

Cuddy watched enchanted, she'd never seem him so reverent. Was it really reverence that stayed his hand or was it fear at what he could discover upon the next page?

He looked up and noticed Cuddy for the first time. That would've been Wilson, it would've been Wilson standing in his office asking him "_what the hell are you doing?!" _Just the thought of the other man brought a soft tear to his eye.

Cuddy watched it silently fall and hit the open book. She almost wanted to dash forward and snatch it from the air to protect that book he had been treating so deferentially.

It fell perfectly onto the page, sinking into it immediately.

House had watched it fall.

The oval droplet was encircling the word _Lemieer's. _

He lifted the book slowly and held it in front of him, Cuddy was reminded of a holy man bearing his holy book out in front of him. House's face seemed so deep, so wise, as if he held in his grasp the secret to all mankind's salvation.

_Lemieer's Syndrome may occasionally present with neurological symptoms, especially irregular changes in personality. _

Cuddy was sure that he read it off, but she never heard the words fall from his lips. It was as if an ethereal voice had echoed from the walls around her, announcing it for all the world to hear.

House had the answer to salvation. Not all mankind's, but all of mankind that mattered. Wilson would forgive himself; House would understand why it had happened. It would all be alright.

Cuddy felt tears spilling across her own face.

And for the second time in two days she found herself locked in House's embrace as they both sobbed in relief.

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And House took him back into his arms. Back into arms that had been vacant for so long. Arms that could be completely filled only by him. And the two men wept. No need for words, not words of forgiveness, not words of sorrow. Tears spoke every one. They both understood everything now. And there was no need for anything else but their never ending embrace. A vow to the endurance of their love.

And House learned to love again.

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_Wilson_

_He was the one to pick up the pieces. The one who caught me when I fell. The one who saved me when death was but a breath away. The one who forgave me when I thought I had lost everything. _

_He was the one to pick up the piece, sort them out, and put them back together. To fight every moment with the same list of symptoms and then sob in ecstasy as every one of those worries melted away. _

_I remember each and every tear on his face. _

_I remember the smile._

_I remember the way he held the book out to me._

_I remember the way I cried and he took me in his arms and held me, just held me there. And I was for once, perfectly safe, perfectly whole. My life was not broken any longer. His life was not broken any longer. _

_The pieces…our pieces…we found that they could only be made whole again when they were put together. _

_I'm the only one who can get through to him…but he's the only one who can get through to me. We're equally weak, equally dependent, equally shattered. House has his Vicodin and I have my House. Addicts in our own right._

_I thought he could never pick up the pieces, I thought he would leave me to the wolves to fend for myself. _

_I was wrong._

_I was so wrong._

_House has more strength than I will ever posses, but maybe he has that strength because of me, and I have mine because of him. We only thought that our lives were broken because we didn't see that they had to be together in order to be complete._

_He picked up my pieces, his pieces, our pieces, and he taught me how to go on. He gave me the chance to go on. _

_A rose bursting into bloom, my world was reborn covered in tears like thick drops of dew, but without the tears it was only half as beautiful.

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**Yes, my faithful readers, that is the end. **

**It made me cry to write it. I hate to see this story draw to a close because I do believe it's one of the best ones I've ever written but I know there's more in store for me. Hehe. And more in store for the lovely characters I've played with here. **

**I love you all so much and that you for your support, encouragement and critiques they're all appreciated.**

**So please take this one last chance to review…or maybe take it as your first chance, I'd really love to have opinions of the completed work. My love to all. **

**Love and music are forever**


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